"Yes, dear, you'll feel no pain at all before long, and then you'll be

well."

It was pitiful. All their words seemed to be laden with double meanings.

They could find none that were not.

But the time had come when Roma resolved she must speak plainly. Rossi

had lifted her into the loggia. He did so every day, carrying her, not

on his arm as a woman carries a child, but against his breast, as a man

carries his wife when he loves her. She always put her arms around his

neck, pretending it was necessary for her safety, and when he had laid

her gently in the bed-chair she pulled down his head and kissed him. The

two little journeys were the delight of the day to Roma, but to Rossi

they were a deepening trouble.

It was the sweetest day of the sweet Roman spring, and Roma wore a light

tea-gown with a coil of white silk about her head such as is seen in the

portraits of Beatrice Cenci. The golden complexion was quite gone, there

was a hard line along the cheek, a deep shadow under the chin, the

nostrils were pinched and the mouth was drawn. But the large eyes,

though heavy with pain, were full of joy. They did not weep any more,

for all their tears were shed, and the light of another world was

reflected in their depths.

Rossi sat by her side, and she took one of his hands and held it on her

lap between both her own. Sometimes she looked at him and then she

smiled. She, who had lost him for a little while, had got him back at

last. It was only just in time. A little break, and they would continue

this--there. Ah, she was very happy!

Rossi's free hand was supporting his head, and he was trying to look

another way. Do what he would to conquer it, the spirit of rebellion was

rising in his heart again. "O God, is this just? Is this right?"

They were alone on the loggia. Above was the cloudless blue sky, below

was the city, hardly seen or heard.

"David," she began, in a faint voice.

"Dearest?"

"I have been so happy in having you with me again that there is

something I have forgotten to tell you."

"What is it, dear?"

"Promise me you will not be shocked or startled."

"What is it, dearest?" he repeated, although he knew too well.

"It is nothing.... Yes, hold my hands tight. So!... Really it's nothing.

And yet it is everything. It is ... it is death."




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